I don’t know my roommate well. I choose not to know him well. He owns four copies of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, has said that he doesn’t believe women should be allowed to vote, and gets so angry when he loses at Halo that he has punched a hole in the wall. My point is that we don’t relate on much. The funniest thing he does though is that he constantly talks to himself. He’s a law school student and a fireman so everyday he’ll get into an argument with someone that he thinks should have gone differently. This means he needs to reiterate over and over that that person is a moron while pacing from the kitchen to his room and explaining how somehow their line of reasoning leads to a country overrun with prostitution and drug-gambling. Which, he wants to point out is not necessarily a bad thing, but he just wants this imaginary person that he is yelling at while brandishing the whisk he is supposed to be washing to admit that this is the conclusion that they need to come to if they believe that providing backup plans for our least fortunate is worthwhile.

He’s been on a tear this morning while I sit in my bed half heartedly jerking off to people I’ve seen in the past couple months. It really kills the mood.

I just want to touch myself and imagine the people I’ve seen clothed without their clothes, but now these imaginary naked women who are riding me keep screaming at me in a Staten Island accent about how Equality is just a word that means people don’t work hard enough.

Imagination is a wonderful tool. As an only child who grew up in rural Maine, I feel as though mine is one of the more vivid imaginations, but imagination is meant to be in your mind. When I talk to myself, I may gesticulate wildly by accident, and even mumble things under my breath, but I do not force my fucked up mind-journeys onto others because they need the opportunity to have their own imagination. And that is true equality.

True equality is not fucking with my vague attempts at masturbation.